There’s an old friend that calls to me
their hands are shoved into pockets
dark half-circles have settled on their face
and their shoes are worn
They want a place to crash again

This traveling stain has gone by many names
but what I used to call them
the pit in my stomach
always seemed more descriptive
than simply calling them self loathing.

They seem weak now
but under dirtied clothes is hard shell
shell, like a seed that once planted it roots in me
and burrowed till they had climbed my throat
and coated my insides in black gooey hate

they left a sticky residue,
the kind that resists being scrubbed off raw fingertips
and stuck on me post-it notes of resentful thoughts
reminding me that even though they’re gone now
they were once there.

So I started writing my own notes
stickers that filled my mind
then my neck, and chest, and finally
my gut.
Little words that accumulated till I opened my mouth and spewed them forward
I repeated them, until I believed them.

One keeps cropping up,
a small slip of syllables that teaches me to act,
regardless of doubt
I take it out of my leather jacket now,
and pass it on to this old friend
reading it out loud as I do,
and saying, clear and fearless,
“No point but the one I choose to make.”